Between Saints and Sins
by VioletShadows01
Summary: All I wanted was to escape. With my first chance at freedom since for as long as I can remember, I looked forward to escaping into the new life presented before me.Now, if I can only get the stupid, antagonizing voice to leave me alone for a moment, I might just be able to make friends with the locals. Eventual MM/OC. Read author's note for details
1. Part One: i

**Between Saints and Sins**

**Summary:**

All I wanted was to escape. Escape the pain. Escape the self-hatred growing and festering within my heart. All I wanted was to become obsolete. With my first chance at freedom since for as long as I can remember, I looked forward to escaping into the new life presented before me.

Now, if I can only get the stupid, antagonizing voice to leave me alone for a moment, I might just be able to make friends with the locals.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Boondock Saints. Sera Maxwell and her future-set companions are of my own creation.

**Author's Note:**

It might be a bit slow in the beginning, but this will eventually grow into bigger, longer and more in-depth chapters. This story starts before Halloween before the first movie. I'm trying to stay away from typical stories where the OC meets the brothers and immediately become friends and all that shit. I want it to be believable to an extent. Sera isn't going to come out and blurt out every detail of her past and she will most likely not being in the midst of the action of the first movie, but instead play a supporting role as her friendship with the brothers continues to grow. Sera is most introverted, her view points and thoughts more expressive than the words she says. She is what you would call 'a woman of few words' believing that actions speak more than words do.

This story is going to be broken up into different parts, or story arcs, the first part focusing on Sera starting a new life and becoming friends with the MacManus brothers, which takes place before the first movie. The second arc will be set during the first movie, third arc set between the first and second movie, fourth arch set during All Saint's Day, fifth arc will branch off because I'm sure I'll get to the fifth arc before we get a third movie.

This will probably develop into a Murphy/Sera(oc) story, but instead of jumping straight from meeting to 'ohmygodiloveyou', their relationship will develop like most do in real life.

* * *

**Part One  
Chapter One  
**_Starting Anew_

* * *

"Are ye' sure, lass? This isn't exactly the nicest neighborhood for a lass like ye' to be livin' in."

Looking around the mediocre loft apartment, I muse over the open space of the floor plan, "I'll be alright," I respond in an off-hand manner, giving a half-smile to the older man, "Thank you for your concern."

Ignoring the suspicious gleam flashing in the man's gaze as my well-cultured and articulated words carry an undefinable accent, "Well, I will be by at the end o'each month to collect yer rent."

"Do you charge extra for any changes to the apartment, paint or pictures?" I ask as the man turns to leave, silently looking forward to a project to get my mind off of recent memories.

The man snorts, "As long as ye' don't go knockin' down the walls, I don't care what ye' do."

Giving a gentle nod, I whisper a soft word of gratitude before the man exits. Feeling the initial cold of the coming Winter months, I drag a large metallic trash bin to the center of the loft before striking a match, tossing it into the bin. As the open flames begin to warm up the loft, I step out of apartment and start my way down the eight flights of stairs. Inwardly groaning as a cool, October breeze blasts my face as I step out of the apartment complex, I tug my jacket tighter, silently making my way to the crap car I recently acquired. Unlocking the trunk, I hoist both large duffle bags, both large enough that my small stature could easily fit inside, over my shoulders, I slam the trunk down and begin the same trek back up the staircase.

The slow trek up the stairs causes my mind to wander, musing over the others. I wonder how they are doing? Are they safe? Are the settled into their new lives? Does it seem as though everything is slow and repetitive to them, as it does to me?

_'Does it matter?'_

Maybe it doesn't matter. It isn't like I'm going to be seeing them ever again.

_'See? They're moving on. Don't you think we should?'_

Perhaps I should move on. I have the right to do so, don't I? After everything these hands have done, don't I have the right to start fresh and clean?

"Shit! Sorry, _bambola_."

The sight of boot-clad feet, the boots well-worn and scuffed, standing only a few steps up, I pull out of my inner thoughts and glance up into the blue eyes of the olive-skinned Italian. His hair falls along his face in a mess of wavy, light curls, a dark-brown almost black color that matches his facial hair. He doesn't appear to be a threat of any kind, in fact he seems apologetic and his gaze seemed to lock onto the two bags hoisted on my back.

"Do you need help carrying those?"

Briefly glancing over my shoulders at the bags, I give him a small twitch of the lips in the most sincere smile I am able to muster, "No. I am fine. I would also appreciate it, if you would not refer to me as 'doll' or any other moniker," Seeing his eyebrows raise in a mix of surprise and confusion, I fight back the urge to sigh, "My name is Sera. I am not fond of common, feminine nicknames."

"Oh, everybody calls me Rocco," the Italian greets, extending a hand in a cordial fashion.

My fingers twitch, the rather annoying cackle in the back of my mind piercing through my attention for a brief moment, "It is nice to meet you."

Rocco seems to understand my reluctance to shake his hand and instead of being offended, he just grins broadly, "Yeah, well, I take it you are the new tenant on the top floor?" I nod, wondering if he lived in the building, "Well, welcome to the building, Sera. I don't live here, if that's what you're wonderin'. I have a couple of friends that live on the fifth floor."

I nod politely, _'Is there a point to this conversation, or can we get back before our new place goes up in flames.'_ I roll my eyes mentally, _'Although, it would probably be an improvement.'_

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Rocco, but if you don't mind," I motion to the ascending staircase behind him.

He lets out a sound of remembrance and chuckles self-deprecatingly, "Sorry about holdin' you up. Hopefully me and the guys will be seeing more of ya'."

I shrug indifferently before squeezing by him, resuming my ascension to the eight floor loft apartment. Stepping into the apartment, I don't even look back as my foot swings back, hooking around the edge of the door and tugging it shut. Dropping the bags to the floor, I sigh as the warmth surrounds me, allowing me the chance to pull off the black, leather duster jacket, hanging it by its enlarged hood. Cracking my knuckles while simultaneously cracking my neck, I shake my agitated nerves loose.

Now to unpack.

* * *

Within a two days, I've managed to make the mediocre loft apartment look more livable. The queen sized bed resided against the furthest wall, black and deep violet bedding giving the area marked as my 'bed room' a little color. The area that is supposed to be a living room, and since I have no inclination to purchase a television, I transformed into a make-shift art studio. I have long-since realized sketching, painting and writing were perfect outlets for the tempest raging within my mind. The kitchenette area is small, the appliances only the most basic and the fridge was bare of anything other than necessities.

Today, I pull the hood over my head as I step out of the apartment complex and into the cold, Boston night. Deciding to use tonight as a means of getting an understanding of my surroundings, I make a quick stop at a nearby convenience store to purchase a pack of menthol cigarettes. Taking to the streets in what is considered one-hundred percent Irish neighborhood, I take in the small restaurants and diners, most decorated with the colors of the approaching Celtic holiday of 'All Hollows Eve'. Churches seem to encompass almost every other street corner, all with different prophets of devotion or with different religious subtext. I, myself, am all but religious. Perhaps there is some divine power out there, but I'm not about to limit what I feel I should and shouldn't do by a series of religious 'rules of decorum'.

_'Religious words given to us by Men can only be held in so much regard.'_

I snort, agreeing with the thought. I figured out a long time ago, if God has a plan for each and every person, than a certain set of rules don't matter in the end. I pull out of my inner musings as I come across the only establishment that didn't seem decorated with the Hallmark holiday of Halloween, but instead carried deep Celtic decorations appropriate to the original belief. McGinty's etched on the frosted-glass of the entrance door and even from the street, I can hear every laugh, cheer and upbeat Irish-inspired music. Figuring now of all times is not the time to be alone, I push my way into the pub, weaving around the rowdy patrons. Locating an empty booth, I sit down and drop my sketch pad on the table. Tracing over the silver 'Sera W. Maxwell' etched into the black leather cover, I smile softly before opening the book and flipping to a new page.

"Can I get ye' somethin' to drink?"

Looking up at the waitress, I nod briefly, "Yes. Can I get a glass of Jameson, light on the ice if you don't mind?"

Seeing the surprise in her gaze, I realize this must be one of those times where I am considered a 'minority'. As she walks off to fill my order, I snort, realizing I'd have to have knowledge of my family background in order to actually know what ethnicity I am. As the glass of cool, amber-gold whiskey is set on the small round table, I give her a nod of thanks before turning my attention back to the sketchpad. Taking two, long sips from the glass, I feel a familiar hum travel along my body at the familiar taste, my fingers fishing out a pencil from the inside pocket of my jacket. Before long, I become lost in the strokes as I sketch out the strong, handsome features, bright eyes illuminated with mischievous intent. James Samson, if I recall correctly. One I can truly count on. Returned to the deep-seeded South, the memory of his thick accent abusing the English language at every passing chance.

After an hour of sketching and being surrounded by the loud, but comforting atmosphere, I snap the sketch pad shut and slide out of the booth. Lifting up my half-empty glass, I begin to make my way to the bar, weaving around the masses. Managing to turn my body, in an attempt to dodge two arguing men that appear to be close to throwing punches in a few minutes, I finish the turn, only to slam into a decidedly masculine body. The sudden jostling forces the remaining contents of my glass to splash over the rim, coating the plain, blue shirt visible through the opening of my jacket.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!"

The curse leaves the man's lips, his right hand running along the front of his own black t-shirt, _Aequitas_ tattooed along the index fingers in bold blue, all capitalized letters. Curious word to ink on one's own finger, but my inner musings are cut short as another male reaches out and cuffs him across the back of his head, the man's head jerking forward before those same fingers run through his own unkempt black hair, rubbing at the back of his head.

"What the fuck was that?" the dark-haired Irishman spits out at his companion.

"Lord's fuckin' name."

The dark-haired man groans in response to the dusty-blonde haired man before he mutters a quick prayer, dragging two fingers from his forehead, to the center of his chest, then to his right shoulder over to his left. I recognize the familiar religious context in his words and actions and smile softly at the obvious devotion. They say those of Celtic families often display a more devoted sense to the Catholic religion.

"Sorry 'bout knockin' inta ye', Lass," dark-haired man states, sheepishly grinning before motioning to my empty glass in my hand, "Can I buy ye' another?"

Shaking my head, I give him a small smile, "No thank you. I was just leaving."

My arm stretches out, my hand sliding between him and his companion, before I place a ten dollar bill on the bar, setting my empty glass upside-down on top of it. Giving a curt nod to the dark-haired Irishman, I turn on heel and slip out of the pub. Lighting up a cigarette, I huddle back into my jacket as I begin my trek through the dingy neighborhood. Maybe this new life will remain as quiet as it has started out to be.

_'Not likely.'_

Ignoring the sing-song inner voice, I take a long drag from the cigarette, glancing up into the smog-filled sky. Yeah. It's probably right. My life has never been quiet. Approaching the apartment complex, I make it up the eight flights of stairs and begin unlocking the door when I hear the generic ring from the house phone pierce the air. Rolling my eyes, I push my way inside before picking up the phone.

"Maxwell residence. This is Sera speaking," I answer, knowing it can only be one of six people.

"How's it goin', sweetheart?" My eyes roll again, the familiar Southern accent traveling through my mind like age-old American whiskey, as I begin to strip out of my jacket and soiled shirt, "I just managed to get settled in and figured I'd give my favorite girl a call."

"How courteous of you," I respond dryly, earning a hearty chuckle, "If you must know, I just arrived at the apartment after getting a feel for the surrounding neighborhood."

"Oh? How is the neighborhood? I'm surrounded by a neighborhood filled with the walking personifications of red-necks and hillbillies."

I snort, "You should feel right at home, yes?" A sarcastic laugh sounds on the other line, "If you must know, I'm most likely the only non-Irish person living in the middle of a hundred-percent Irish neighborhood."

"I'm going to take a wild guess and state that your accent still doesn't match their's?"

Sighing as I slip a clean shirt over my head, I run my fingers through my short, pixie-cut black curls, "Well, if I had the same linguistic slur and horrible grammar, I'm sure part of my accent could derive from Irish background, but no. Still nothing that's set."

"Well, you be sure to let me know if you get any ideas. We can have Stefan process it for ya'."

I smile, despite the situation, "I will."

"I'm gonna hit the hay, as they say," I cringe inwardly at the purposely horrible grammar, hearing the chuckle on the other end causes me to realize he did it on purpose, "I miss ya', girl."

"I know," I respond, "Sleep well, Jimmy."

Hanging up the phone, I drop it on the receiver before falling back onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling, I grumble inwardly. Bits of Irish, Scottish, British, French, Italian, Greek and Scandinavian. Bits and piece of each dialect, language and accent so far has shown influence over my current accent. Still, nothing comes to mind when I think about it. How can I be born American, yet be so influence linguistically by cultures on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean?

_'We've got to find out what happened for those five years.'_

Right. The missing five years. Let's not forget about the sudden appearance of a very opinionated secondary voice in my head.

_'Hey! I'm awesome!'_

Rolling my eyes, I shove the voice away as I close my eyes. A new place. A new life. A new start.

_'Let's hope it stays that way, no?'_


	2. Part One: ii

**Between Saints and Sins**

**Summary:**

All I wanted was to escape. Escape the pain. Escape the self-hatred growing and festering within my heart. All I wanted was to become obsolete. With my first chance at freedom since for as long as I can remember, I looked forward to escaping into the new life presented before me.

Now, if I can only get the stupid, antagonizing voice to leave me alone for a moment, I might just be able to make friends with the locals.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Boondock Saints. Sera Maxwell and her future-set companions are of my own creation.

**Author's Note:**

It might be a bit slow in the beginning, but this will eventually grow into bigger, longer and more in-depth chapters. This story starts before Halloween before the first movie. I'm trying to stay away from typical stories where the OC meets the brothers and immediately become friends and all that shit. I want it to be believable to an extent. Sera isn't going to come out and blurt out every detail of her past and she will most likely not being in the midst of the action of the first movie, but instead play a supporting role as her friendship with the brothers continues to grow. Sera is most introverted, her view points and thoughts more expressive than the words she says. She is what you would call 'a woman of few words' believing that actions speak more than words do.

This story is going to be broken up into different parts, or story arcs, the first part focusing on Sera starting a new life and becoming friends with the MacManus brothers, which takes place before the first movie. The second arc will be set during the first movie, third arc set between the first and second movie, fourth arch set during All Saint's Day, fifth arc will branch off because I'm sure I'll get to the fifth arc before we get a third movie.

This will probably develop into a Murphy/Sera(oc) story, but instead of jumping straight from meeting to 'ohmygodiloveyou', their relationship will develop like most do in real life.

* * *

**Part One  
Chapter Two  
**_Trying Something New_

* * *

_"Alright, sweetie. It's only going to pinch-"_

_"I know, Daddy. It's only going to pinch the smallest bit, quick and easy. It will be over before I can blink." Hazel eyes focus on the task, my own staring at his aged face, "I just don't know why I need these again."_

_"Because you're sick, baby. Daddy is only doing this because it will make you become stronger, make you better." A large hand pats the top of my head, "Daddy's doing what is best for you, sweetie. You know-"_

_"That Daddy knows best," I sigh in child-like exasperation, "I know. I know."_

* * *

A few days have passed since I began my life living in the Irish neighborhood of South Boston. Despite my original hesitation on living among so many civilian strangers, I have come to appreciate the quiet and privacy of the other tenants. No one has come, knocking on my door, inviting me to the 'neighborhood'. I even started working at a diner just a few blocks from the apartment complex. Despite the availability of the car I have, I enjoy walking.

"Oi, Sera," I glance up at the sound of my name, inhaling the sweet relief of nicotine as the hostess pops her head out through the back door, "Ye' have a table when yer done."

Nodding curtly, I roll my eyes after the woman disappears, returning inside the diner. I know, in the reality, that this is how the vast majority live; work, sleep, pay bills, eat and it's just a cycle that repeats constantly. I know, for a fact, that I need to work on my people-skills. Jimmy always said I was socially inept. Inhaling the last drag of the cigarette, I release it to the ground, exhaling slowly as my booted foot stomps down on the burning cigarette. Turning on point, I head back inside, tugging at the moderately tight-fitted button down shirt subconsciously, I swallow down the odd nervous tension along my body.

Like I said, socially inept.

"Believe me, it's damn near impossible to forget a pair o'eyes like that."

"Whatever ye' say. Obviously had no intention of stickin' around."

Nibbling on the inside of my cheek, I turn my head at an odd angle, inwardly groaning as the joints along my neck pop, before I pause by the lone table occupied by two men, "What can I get you guys?"

Both of them men have blue eyes, and the man with the darker blue eyes and unkempt black hair pauses from replying, his eyes widening with a gleam of recognition, "Bright-Eyes!"

Confused, I tilt my head, trying to observe the odd mannerisms of the duo as the man's companion reaches across the table and smacks the side of his head. It is then that I realize why the dark-haired man recognizes me, my own mind recognizing the familiar friendly abuse. It's the same two guys from the pub, McGinty's. Bowing my head briefly, feeling awkward by my natural disposition, I inhale gently before lifting my gaze again, blinking as I find both staring pointedly at me.

"I apologize," I state, licking my lips as a familiar taste fills my mouth, "for interrupting your conversation. If you want, I can come back in a few minutes."

The dark-haired guy shakes his head, "Nah, we're ready ta' place our orders, but I'd like ta' apologize for spillin' yer drink. It's frowned upon for a man of my upbringing ta do so." He extends his hand in a friendly manner, "I'm Murphy MacManus. This is me brother, Connor," The dusty-blonde haired man nods cordially.

_'Well, would you look at that? Another person extending a formal handshake.'_

The fingers of my right hand twitches briefly and after swallowing down the nervousness in my throat, I look over the wide grinning face, the slightest appearance of a dimple indenting along the corner of his cheek. I am surprised that even despite my hesitation, he doesn't waver in his expectation of having his hand shaken. Fingers twitching once more, my hand tentatively reaches out and clasps with his, my heart caught in my throat and my lungs seem to have frozen over. I marvel over his calloused hands, how rough they feel but how soft his touch appears. Watching his long, dexterous fingers curls around the edge of my hand, as if I am something that will break, his hand carefully shaking it before his ethnic upbringing causes him to change our grip and his slightly-chapped lips press against the back of my knuckles. A tightness grips my chest, feeling the warmth of his breath along the back of my hand and the slightest hint of moisture brushing along my skin.

All of this appears to happen within a brief moment, my mind quickly assessing everything before I realize exactly _what_ his lips are touching. _My hands._ Tugging my hand free from his grasp, I duck my head, the sudden nausea churning in my stomach. No. People aren't allowed to touch me. It isn't right.

"Sorry if him kissin' the back o'yer hand is makin' ye' uncomfortable," Connor's deeper voice brings me out of my nervous disposition and I glance up at his soft blue eyes, two shades lighter than his brother's, "Ma raised us ta treat women like yerself with respect."

I know my smile is nervous, but I give them both one despite that, "It's fine. I'm...not a real big people-person," Both seem surprised by my words, "Why don't I go put your orders in?"

After getting their orders, I hand the slip to the cook before walking straight through the service entrance. I don't care if I just came in from smoking. My nerves are rattled more than they have ever been. I'm not sure I can handle this particular test.

_'You have to learn. All of this is new. You have to try and step out of your circle of comfort, otherwise, you will never get passed everything that happened._'

My life has never been a torrent of hugs, handshakes and intimate gestures. Pain, terror, desolation and then...nothingness.

_'Until the others came into your life.'_

Right. The others. They helped me escape the nothingness my world became, but they were only able to help so much.

Finishing yet another cigarette, I head back inside just as the cook rings the bell, signaling the food order is up. Grabbing the tray, stacked with plates of food, I head over to the brothers. Setting their food down, I give them a small smile and add an 'enjoy' before turning to head off. The sudden 'wait!' tainted with the Irish accent causes my steps to freeze, my body turning only slightly to catch Murphy's gaze.

"Ye' never told us yer name, Bright-Eyes," Murphy states, his eyes expectant and hopeful.

Wondering why he seems to have a fascination with my eyes, I inhale, "Sera. My name is Sera."

"Well, Sera, ye' should come ta McGinty's for All Hollow's Eve."

* * *

By the end of my shift, Murphy's words ring in my head. I know that everyone dresses up in costumes. I can honestly say I've never celebrated Halloween.

_'Hell, you've never celebrated any holiday.'_

Good point. I wouldn't know how to act. Or even what I should do. I hang my jacket up on the hook after kicking the door shut. Rolling my arm around, shaking out the tension along my muscles, I blink as the house phone rings. Groaning, I pull the phone off of the charger and answer it.

"Speak."

"Hello, Sera."

It honestly could have been anyone but him, "Hello, Ethan. Is something wrong?"

"No. Spoke with Jimmy, said he spoke with you, thought I'd give you a call. You sound more thoughtful than usual. Something bothering you?"

I snort, "Like you honestly care."

"Yeah, I don't. It is just common social decorum to ask."

I blink in realization that Ethan would actually understand my situation better than most, "I see. If social decorum dictates I give a response." I pause, unsure of how to start, "I've been invited to a Halloween party of sorts," A sadistic cackle sounds through the phone, "Yes. I know. Amusing, but I honestly don't know how to celebrate holidays."

"Go find a costume, most likely something skimpy, head out to the party, get drunk and enjoy yourself."

Slightly shocked, falling back on my bed as I stare at the water-stained ceiling panels, "I'm not sure if I can."

A sigh pierces through the phone, "Look, Sera, I understand you aren't exactly...uh...open to new experiences, but you're going to have to do it at some point. Trying something new might give you a better understand of what it's like to be a civilian living an average lifestyle." A pause occurs before Ethan continues, "Should I have Parker order you to go?"

Sighing, I realize what he means, "No. I...I will try," Biting down on the inside of my cheek again, I reach up and rub the bridge of my nose, "I know you and I don't agree on much, but thank you, Ethan."

"Yeah, yeah, don't go getting all warm-feelings on me. I still think you are one crazy bitch."

I snort as the dial tone greets me. Typical Ethan. Tossing the phone on the nightstand, I inhale deeply before my eyes slide shut. Maybe Ethan is right. Maybe I just need to try and stretch my limits. It isn't anything new to me. These limits are just different than the others. These limits are times I haven't dealt with. Ever.

_'You need this.'_

* * *

_"Who is he, Daddy?"_

_A hand rustles my hair playfully, "You remember how I told you Daddy's friend was looking for a special kid?" I nod hesitantly and glance up at this other man, "Well, he wants to see if you are a possible special kid. Now, see what's in front of you? This is an obstacle course. I want you to show Daddy's friend how good you are getting from one end to the other."_

_Daddy always made me run this course. He said a person should always know how to overcome anything that stands between them and what the need. I don't mind it. It's fun: climbing up ropes, wiggling through tires and running across balance beams._

_After making it to the other side, I turn back, Daddy's friend shaking Daddy's hand. His face looks kind of funny. In a weird way. It scares me, but Daddy always said that the best way to overcome a fear is to face it._

_"She's perfect."_

* * *

Bright green-grey eyes stare back at me as I look at my reflection in horror. Not that there is anything wrong with my body. I carry a petite build, every aspect of my body small, the curves of my body ample and slight. I carry the body built for speed, endurance and endless stamina, the lean muscle only noticeable when they tense. No, my green-grey eyes, so unusually bright despite my rather bleak and nonchalant disposition, stare at the horror I am forcing myself to wear. The white-pinstriped black skirt stops just above my knees, my dainty feet clad in a pair of black stiletto heels. The tight-fitting white, long-sleeved blouse hugging my torso from under the equally-as-tight white-pinstriped, black vest, both shirts coming up short above my belly button. The all white fedora decorated with a lone, black band of cloth around the circumference, sits on top of my short, pixie-cut black hair.

How did I get talked into this?

_'Hey! We look awesome! It's nice to see you in something other than torn-up jeans and various band t-shirts.'_

Right. That's how I was talked into this.

Well...there's no time like the present.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Please leave a review. Let me know what you think. The italicized script are memories/dreams and I can tell you that they are not going to all be chronological. Her memories, or those that she can remember, come to her during certain situations, like how most people recall memories. I'm trying to give you a better understanding of her disposition. She's not well-versed in dealing with average people and is never sure how to react (and the voice doesn't help either).  
**

**ArandoraStar: Thank you for your review. I'm glad it caught your attention. I am trying to make meetings and the growing stages of friendship seem believable between how the brothers are personality wise versus how Sera's personality is.**

**ScornedxRose: Thank you very much. Sera isn't the type of person to invest much on her own appearance, so most of the time, unless she's dressing up, or looking at a reflection, she doesn't acknowledge her looks, much like most of us do in real life. I'm glad I have you intrigued. I'm trying to keep the readers invested in her own mystery she is trying to figure out, while also not giving so much away so fast.**

**Look forward to more reviews. They help me a lot when trying to put out a new chapter and keep me motivated. Whether you like it, or if you feel something is wrong with it, let me know so I may continue to write or improve what needs to be improved upon.**


End file.
